Yet, O days of joy⁠—days, when eye spoke to eye, and voices, sweeter than the music of the swinging branches of the pines, or rivulet’s gentle murmur, answered mine⁠—yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved society⁠—days unutterably dear to me forlorn⁠—pass, O pass before me, making me in your memory forget what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes blot this senseless paper⁠—behold, how my features are convulsed by agonizing throes, at your mere recollection, now that, alone, my tears flow, my lips quiver, my cries fill the air, unseen, unmarked, unheard! Yet, O yet, days of delight! let me dwell on your long-drawn hours!